


i feel my feet lifting from underneath

by chasinglaughter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Step Up AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2018-06-01 05:33:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6502732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasinglaughter/pseuds/chasinglaughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Loras hurts his ankle just as they begin rehearsals for the senior showcase, Jon Snow offers to help Sansa out.</p><p>or: the Step Up AU no one asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Building on the Jon/Sansa Step Up AU fic/picset series over on my Tumblr (http://thesleepysubwaytrain.tumblr.com/tagged/step+up+au). I've added a couple more scenes in between the ones already published there.
> 
> Not really a full-fledged fic so much as scenes from the same universe in chronological order, but I hope you all enjoy nonetheless. Will hopefully be updated semi-regularly!
> 
> Title from the Samantha Jade song.

The senior showcase is the most important performance of her life, so _of course_ Loras hurts his ankle just as they begin rehearsals. It’s only for a month, maybe two, but Sansa still needs a partner to get started on choreo. She auditions what seems like the entire junior class over the course of a long, frustrating afternoon, without finding even a single guy remotely capable of what she needs.

“ _None_ of them can do a proper lift,” Sansa whines to Marg when she pokes her head in the studio to check on her. “It’s ridiculous.”

“Oh, sweetling, you’re just bigger than they’re used to,” Marg coos in sympathy. “Because you’re so tall.”

Sansa flushes. Marg is her friend, but at Casterly School of the Arts, even friends are competition—there are only so many open positions in the major companies, after all, which is why the senior showcase is so crucial. If she can’t find someone to stand in for Loras, she can kiss her chance at becoming a professional dancer goodbye.

She’s still sulking as she picks up Robb from rehearsals with his dance crew, the Direwolves, without even the energy to roll her eyes at Theon when he makes a comment about her tights. Her brother is sprawled out on a chair, surveying his little dance kingdom, with Jon Snow leaning against the wall beside him, eyes closed.

“Everyone was terrible,” Sansa announces, tossing her bag beside him. “I blame you.”

Her brother, the smug asshole, only laughs. “How is it my fault that Loras Tyrell was stupid enough to hurt himself dancing with Renly Baratheon?”

“If you helped me out….” 

“Wish I could, San,” he says, and to his credit he really does look sorry, “but the Streets are coming up. We heard the Fury’s got a new leader who called war on us.”

Honestly, Robb’s decision to quit ballet to focus on street dance is as baffling to her now as it was a year ago. Like some underground (not to mention _illegal_ ) competition is more important than a shot at a job with a major dance company?

“Okay, but you should see some of these juniors. They’re hopeless.” Robb only looks amused as she launches into a rant about the complete uselessness of the underclassmen at school. But before Sansa can really get into her diatribe, Jon clears his throat. His eyes were closed so she didn’t think he was listening, but now they flicker open as he looks at her.

“I could help you out,” he says, running a hand through his hair.

Sansa looks him up and down, considering. He’s built like her brother, lean and athletic—and taller than her, which is pretty rare in her partners. “Do you even have any classical training?”

“Nope,” he shrugs. “But I’m a fast learner.”


	2. Chapter 2

“…and end with a stag. Got it?”

Sansa drops her arms and looks expectantly at him, and he mimics the sequence. The moves are a lot different than what he’s used to, with the Direwolves, but he manages them well enough. Sansa seems to think so, at least, because she only nods before facing the mirror again.

“Okay, now we’ll try a lift. So from here—“ she lifts her arms again, and Jon has to force himself to focus on her words and not on how insanely long her legs look when she’s en pointe “—hold my waist.”

Jon moves forward carefully. He’s never been this close to her—he’s known her for years because of Robb, but before he volunteered to practice with her, they never really had much to do with each other. When he rests his hand on her waist, his palm barely touches the thin fabric.

“I said hold, Jon. You have to support me.” He swallows, slowly tightens his grip until she nods again. “Now I’m going to go into a dive. Keep one hand on my waist, move the other to my leg. Here.”

Jon stares at the spot she indicates high up her thigh, just where her shorts end. He swallows as he moves his hand to hover over her skin.

Sansa looks up at him, rolling her eyes. “Oh, for god’s sake.” She grabs his hand and presses it to her thigh, her fingers squeezing his. “I’ve seen your rehearsals with Robb, I know you’ve held partners in more scandalous places. So hold tight unless you want me to fall flat on my face.”


	3. Chapter 3

Cersei says nothing as she watches the video, and Sansa resists the urge to squirm in her seat. Years of watching her terrorise her students has turned the old awe-driven fear that overcame Sansa in her presence into a strong but well-hidden dislike, but she still needs the director’s approval. Cersei Lannister might be cruel and vain, but she’s still one of the most influential _prima ballerinas_ in the world.

“This partner of yours,” she says, finally, gesturing with her long fingers at the frozen image of Jon holding her in a lift. Sansa’s rather proud, actually—Jon picked up on the routine impressively quick, and watching the video it isn’t very obvious that only two weeks ago he didn’t even know what a _plié_ was. “Where did you pick him up?”

She speaks of Jon as she would an abandoned, unwanted kitten, and Sansa has to force back the retort that rises to her throat. “A friend of my brother’s, ma’am. Loras isn’t back yet, and the underclassmen weren’t…suited.”

Cersei sniffs. “I can’t imagine how this boy is more suited than any of my students. You should have come to me if you needed help finding a replacement for Loras. Joff would be eager to help.”

_Like hell._ “He’s only standing in, and we haven’t had any problems. I wouldn’t want to bother Joffrey with something so small.”

“Hmm.” Cersei's sharp green eyes are piercing, and Sansa does her best to meet her gaze head-on. “I’ll let it pass. But take care that it doesn’t affect the quality of your performance. I expect only the best at the showcase.”

She’s practically bouncing with relief afterwards on the entrance steps when Robb arrives to pick her up. To her surprise—and, she can admit to herself, pleasure—Jon’s in the passenger seat.

“Jon’s staying over tonight,” Robb says by way of explanation as she climbs in. He’s frowning, a muscle working in his jaw. “We need to talk strategy—Theon found out who the Fury’s new leader is.”

“Who?” Sansa, despite herself, has become pretty invested in her brother’s crew, and is as up-to-date as any of them on the competition.

Jon grins at her through the rearview mirror. “Myrcella Baratheon.”

Her brother scowls. “I have no idea how a prima donna princess like her took over the Fury, of all crews.”

“You saw the video,” Jon laughs. “She’s _good._ And she wasn’t exactly dancing like a princess.”

Sansa watches with interest as Robb flushes red, then clears his throat. “Still. Wouldn’t have expected it from Cersei Lannister’s daughter.”

“Speaking of,” Jon says. “How’d the meeting go?”

She smiles at him, pleased that he’s remembered something she only mentioned in passing. “She didn’t say anything about my routine, which for her is a compliment, and she allowed you to keep being my partner despite being street dance riffraff.”

“How gracious of her,” he says dryly.

“This better not distract Jon,” Robb warns her, frowning again. “The competition for the Streets is looking crazy this year. I need him in top shape.”

“Yes, brother dear. We already scheduled everything around your rehearsals.”

“You’re sure you won’t be too tired?”

Jon meets her eyes again in the rearview mirror and smiles. “Yeah, no problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the first of the additional scenes to the original tumblr set. really just filler, but the image of Sansa defending her choice of partner to Cersei wouldn't leave me.
> 
> (i also could not resist sneaking in some slight robb/myrcella, sorry)


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa slams into the studio three minutes late (not that he’s counting, but it is uncharacteristic for a girl who always shows up ten minutes early out of fear of being late and seeming rude). Jon watches from the floor, where he’s been trying out some spins for the Direwolves’ upcoming gig, as she throws her gym bag at the wall and practically rips her hoodie off.

“Marg Tyrell said my routine was stiff,” she scowls, hurling her hoodie to join her bag. He drops from his freeze to look at her properly.

“She’s just trying to psych you out.” Jon doesn’t know who Marg Tyrell is, and he doesn’t really care, but he’s more than familiar with the kinds of tricks the competition tries to pull on you. “Don’t stress about it.”

“You don’t think my routine is stiff?” She turns on him, blue eyes flashing. “Tell me the truth.”

“Nope,” Jon says, and he’s not lying—he thinks it’d be impossible for anyone to call the clean, graceful lines Sansa makes when she dances _stiff_. But she asked him to be honest, so he continues, “But—“

“But?”

“It seems…safe?” She frowns, and he holds up his hands. “I mean, I’m no expert—“

“Safe,” Sansa says, pursing her lips for a few seconds before nodding once, decisively. “Alright. We’ll spice it up. Show me that thing you were doing when I came in.”


	5. Chapter 5

It’s at one of the Direwolves’ gigs, cheering from the sidelines with a tipsy Marg, that she realises: Jon Snow is _hot_.

Sansa’s always known that he's attractive, of course, but it was always in the same clinical sort of way she knows Robb is attractive. But now, watching him jump into a handstand, hair carelessly tied back, biceps straining beneath his sleeves, she’s hit with the desire to march up to him, run her hands through those dark curls, feel every single muscle underneath her fingers.

She is maybe a little drunker than she thought.

“Oh my god,” Marg says in glee, grabbing her arm, annoyingly perceptive even when intoxicated. “You’re _drooling_.”

“I am _not._ ”

“You’re ripping his clothes off with your eyes,” she giggles, before patting Sansa’s hand. “I don’t blame you, sweetling. The boy is _fine._ ”

She makes it through the night without giving in to her drunken desires, and thankfully the venue’s too crowded for Jon to notice Marg not-so-subtly pushing Sansa at him. But it’s all she can think about two days later when they meet again for rehearsals, and she has to end the session early because she can’t concentrate with his hands on her.

It’s some kind of cosmic joke that the moment he’s finally comfortable with touching her, she isn’t.


	6. Chapter 6

Robb brings it up as they leave rehearsals.

“Hey, man, if the whole Sansa thing gets too much—let me know, yeah? I can talk to her.”

For a moment Jon is terrified that Robb’s found out about his crazy attraction to his sister. “What Sansa thing?”

“The practices for her showcase. If they’re taking up too much of your time…”

“Nah, it’s fine,” he says. “I don’t really have anything else to do.” 

It’s true. On the rare days he doesn’t have rehearsals with either Sansa or the Direwolves, going home to the apartment’s way too quiet with Dany and Drogo still out doing whatever it is politicians do. But he also genuinely enjoys the rehearsals with Sansa (he tells himself that it’s being able to pick up different styles, but Sansa’s bright smile when he suggests a new move and the way she brings homemade cookies to eat after practice are probably the bigger draw).

Robb grins, elbows him. “That’s not what Val said.”

Jon follows his gaze to where Val’s walking on the other side of the lot, blonde hair swinging across her back with every step. She glances at him and smiles, winking in the way that used to make him flush—but now he can only think about how Sansa winked at him the other day when teasing Robb about Myrcella Baratheon kicking his ass at their last dance battle. He only waves at Val before getting into the car.

He can’t exactly tell Robb that he stopped flirting with Val to flirt with his little sister instead.

“She complained to Theon earlier that you never have time to hang out anymore,” Robb continues, starting the engine. “If it’s ‘cause of all the practices with Sansa—”

“I’m backing off Val, actually,” he cuts in. “I don’t want to mess up the group dynamic, not with The Streets coming up.”

Mentioning The Streets works as a distraction, as it always does with Robb—he immediately launches into a discussion about all the things they need to fix with the choreography, and Jon only has to nod along in agreement, all the while thinking about red hair and long legs and bright blue eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

It starts with him walking her home after practice in a downpour: she forgot her umbrella, Jon insisted it was on his way (although she’s pretty sure it’s not), and they ended up circling her block a dozen times because neither of them wanted to end the conversation just yet. After that it becomes natural to walk around the neighborhood together after they wrap up rehearsal.

The physical attraction’s still there, of course (very much so), but Sansa can’t remember the last time she enjoyed just _talking_ to someone so much, outside of her siblings—Jon has a surprising gift for impressions, for someone normally so solemn-looking, and his reenactments of Robb’s drunken antics or Arya and Gendry’s latest fight have her helpless with laughter. And when it’s her turn to talk, Jon _listens_ , nodding along with those earnest grey eyes, offering the occasional deadpan side comment that makes her giggle. It’s so easy—she feels like she can just be herself around him without worrying about being judged, and that’s a luxury she rarely has in the ultra-competitive CSA.

It’s because of this that she takes him to the waterfront. “This is my happy place,” Sansa says, stepping to stand beside Jon as he stares out at the boats that dot the water in the distance.

Jon doesn’t think it’s silly or laugh, like Joffrey did when she brought him—he only keeps his gaze out on the water, his now-familiar half-smile tugging at his lips. “It does seem pretty peaceful out here.”

“I come here whenever I need inspiration—it’s where I first imagined the routine, actually.”

“Yeah?” He turns his head to look at her fully, and Sansa’s heart stutters in her chest at the softness in his eyes. She’s saved from the need to scramble for a reply when he pulls out his phone, tapping on the screen until familiar chords drift out from the speakers.

Wordlessly, Jon holds out his hand, and she takes it, and they flow through her dance— _their_ dance, now. It’s not the routine she’d originally planned, but any dance she’s ever imagined seems to pale in comparison to the reality of these five minutes with Jon on the waterfront: hands meeting at just the right moment, jumps and turns impossibly synchronized, the graceful shadows the setting sun casts behind them.

Sansa’s so caught up in the utter perfection of it that she barely registers the song ending, her and Jon moving into the final dip. His eyes are impossibly soft again, his hands firm on her waist—that day in practice seems ages ago now, though it’s barely been a month—and she doesn’t dare move for fear of shattering the private world they’ve woven.

But as the song, set to repeat on Jon’s phone, starts up again, he lets out a slow, shaky breath, lips parting slightly, and Sansa kisses him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of all the things Jon’s come to know and like about Sansa, maybe the most surprising is how devious she is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back after a bazillion years! can i just say that i love how much the jon x sansa fandom's grown? so many amazing fics now, and i was inpsired/shamed into picking this up again. i'm pretty rusty, but hope you all enjoy nonetheless!

Of all the things Jon’s come to know and like about Sansa, maybe the most surprising is how _devious_ she is. He wouldn’t have expected it from someone so polite and proper, but Sansa can plot and scheme her way into anything.

It’s come in handy for Robb a few times, he’s observed—his best friend is a damn good dancer and an even better leader, but he’s shit when it comes to the political maneuverings of the local dance scene. When they hear that the Fury are performing at an event at a hot new club, Robb only fumes, but a few calls from Sansa to god-knows-who lands them a co-headline invite.

“How,” Robb says, pausing their _Call of Duty_ game and staring at her with an awe that Jon’s sure is reflected in his own eyes (not that it’s a new thing for him; he’s pretty sure he’s always awestruck whenever he looks at her, especially now).

“Well,” Sansa smirks, flicking her ponytail over her shoulder as she steps through the doorway and perches on the edge of Robb’s bed, right next to Jon, who represses the urge to touch her. “It wasn’t hard once I found out who owns Sunspear.”

“No one knows who owns Sunspear,” Theon drawls. “That’s part of its appeal.”

“Petyr Baelish knew.”

Robb turns an interesting shade of purple, and Jon feels his fists clenching. “You talked to that perv? After what he tried to do to you?”

“Relax,” Sansa rolls her eyes, though she rubs a thumb over Jon’s knuckles when Robb isn’t looking. “You couldn’t pay me to go near Littlefinger.” 

Ignoring Robb’s snickers at the nickname Arya had given their ex-family friend when she’d seen the photos he’d texted Sansa, she continues, “I’m still in touch with his PA, though. And Randa was pretty willing to let the secret slip once I gave her Harry’s number.”

“Harry _Hardyng_? The blonde asshole with a different girl every month?”

“You’re one to talk,” Sansa throws a pillow at Theon, who only grins. “But anyway, Randa said the Martells own Sunspear.”

“Should’ve known,” Robb mutters. “All that fucking orange.”

“But what does that have to do with anything?” Jon is honestly baffled, and a quick glance at Robb and Theon show that he’s not alone.

Sansa sighs at their collective idiocy. “Who do the Martells hate?”

“The Baratheons?”

“And the Lannisters,” she says. “Now ask yourselves why they’d give Cella Baratheon’s crew the headline at their biggest event so far.”

Jon looks at Robb and Theon again, and they all just shrug.

“Honestly,” Sansa says, “How the hell are you three running your own crew? It’s because Doran Martell can’t say no to his son, and Trystane’s been in love with Cella since, like, fifth grade."

Jon doesn’t miss Robb’s eyes narrowing at _that_ tidbit, and he files it away for later teasing. “I still don’t see how that helped us get the gig, unless Trystane’s in love with Robb too.”

“No, but Doran can’t say no to Arianne, either, and guess who Marg’s new girlfriend is.”

Robb blinks. “Are you saying you got your friend to trade in sexual favors for an invite to Sunspear?”

“Not that Marg would’ve been unwilling,” Sansa laughs, “but she only made the introduction. Arianne’s a businesswoman, she was perfectly happy to add the Direwolves in once I pitched the idea of a showdown between the two hottest dance crews. Especially if it means upstaging her brother and pissing off Cersei Lannister.”

A beat of silence, then—“You’re my favorite sister,” Robb declares, sweeping Sansa off the bed into a hug as Theon and Jon laugh.

“Put me down,” she shrieks, although she ruffles Robb’s hair with a wink at Jon, and not for the first time Jon feels a twinge of guilt that they haven’t told him. “If Arya heard you say that, you’re dead. And you _so_ owe me.”

“Name it,” Robb says, grinning.

Sansa smiles right back, and the arch of her brow makes Jon grin in anticipation. “You haven’t done anything for your prank video yet, right?”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Direwolves’ prank video entry for The Streets is a hit. Robb is unbearably smug, watching the YouTube views climb higher and higher, but Sansa’s hardly any better—it was her idea to prank Joff, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't even know why this is so long, i apologize for this mess.
> 
> also let's assume that 18 is the legal drinking age in modern Westeros and they're all of age ok?

The Direwolves’ prank video entry for The Streets is a _hit_.

Not just within the local street dance community, or the wider King’s Landing: it seems like the whole world has watched the five-minute video of the Wolves trailing Joffrey Baratheon around town, dancing behind his back in the most ridiculous situations. Aunt Lysa—who Sansa’s pretty sure only uses the Internet to post photos of her son Robin—calls their mother to complain about Robb’s _hooliganism_ , Rickon demands that the crew go to his school to perform for his awestruck classmates, and a clip of Joff eating a burger while Theon lapdances a laughing Val at the table right behind goes viral on Twitter.

Robb is unbearably smug, watching the YouTube views climb higher and higher, but Sansa’s hardly any better—it was her idea to prank Joff, after all. Call it payback for the six months she wasted on his sorry ass, and not even close to what he deserves.

“You’re a fucking genius,” Dacey Mormont shouts at her at the Dragonpit, where Robb’s dragged them all to celebrate.

“Cheers, girl.” Val hands her a shot of vodka. They clink glasses and Sansa downs the drink, relishing the burn in her throat.

“So,” Val says, nudging her with her elbow as Dacey turns her attention from them to flirt with Smalljon. “You and Jon, huh?”

Sansa’s eyes dart to her from the other side of the table, where she’s been watching Jon chat with Robb, his cheeks appealingly flushed from the tequila they’ve been downing. “What?”

“Please,” Val rolls her eyes. “It’s so obvious. I’m surprised Robb hasn’t caught on.”

“Don’t tell him—”

“I won’t,” Val cuts in. “But if you’re serious about Jon…“

“Of course I am.“

“Then you should tell him, and soon. I don’t know what you know about Ygritte—”

Honestly, Sansa doesn’t know much about Jon’s ex, just that she also had red hair and was part of a rival crew and that Jon was _devastated_ when she dumped him on their orders.

“—but towards the end there was a lot of guilt and shame in that relationship, and he doesn’t deserve to go through that kind of shit again. Jon’s too good for that.”

“He is,” Sansa murmurs, avoiding Val’s piercing stare. _After the showcase,_ she swears. Jon being her partner is complicated enough without having to navigate announcing their relationship.

She’s saved from having to say anything more by the appearance of Myrcella Baratheon, turning heads in a backless red halter top and lipstick to match.

“He is so dead,” Val laughs, as they watch her march up to Robb and shove his shoulder.

“My brother, Stark,” she hisses.

Robb gapes at her for a second before recovering. “Saw it, did you?” he smirks down at her. “We didn’t hurt him. And be honest, princess, you don’t like him either.”

“Don’t call me that,” Cella snaps. “He’s still my brother, and you _humiliated_ him—”

“You should be thanking me for it, I’ve seen how he treats you—”

Sansa’s startled by Jon’s hand at her waist as he comes up behind her, having wisely escaped the fight that usually accompanies a Robb-Myrcella confrontation. “Everyone’s looking at them,” he drops a kiss to her shoulder, and a shiver runs down her spine. “Let’s dance.”

She follows him out to the dance floor, fingers tangled with his. Everyone does seem to be watching the shouting match over in the corner, or wrapped up in their own partners, so she happily loops her arms around his neck as they begin to sway to the beat.

It’s a nice change, she thinks as Jon pulls her closer, to be dancing like this for once, for fun and not for the Direwolves or for the showcase. She can run her fingers down his v-neck, enjoy the feel of his broad chest under the cotton and watch his throat bob when she brushes against his nipples. He grips her hips in response, his warm hands finding the strip of skin between her crop top and skinny jeans.

“Have I told you how amazing you are,” he murmurs into her ear—it’s unlike Jon to be so open like this out in public, but she guesses she has Robb and his ridiculous love for tequila to thank for it.

“Not today,” she says, trying for flippant, but it comes out as a sigh as Jon starts pressing kisses to her jaw.

“You got us the Sunspear gig, then you came up with the best prank video in the history of the Streets—and got revenge on your douchebag ex, too—on top of all the work you’re putting in for the most amazing performance all those snobs at CSA will ever see. Plus,” he says, sucking at the sensitive spot on her neck and making her gasp, “you look gorgeous.”

Sansa’s glad she’s already flushed from the alcohol and the heat of the club. She tangles her fingers in his curls. “You’re amazing, too—you’ve basically got endless rehearsals, with me and the Direwolves. I know it hasn’t been easy juggling both.”

“Not if it means spending time with you,” he says, and it’s a line if she’s ever heard one, but she _melts_ at the sincerity in his voice. She turns her head when he moves to kiss her cheek, meeting his lips like she’s wanted to ever since he showed up at the Dragonpit in his stupid v-neck and sinfully tight jeans.

He smiles against her mouth, pulling her flush against him as he deepens the kiss. The bass coming through the speakers—Renly’s DJing tonight, she remembers vaguely, it’s part of the reason they’d chosen to come here—seems to thrum in time with her pulse, feeling like fire running through her veins, Jon’s tongue slick against hers, his hands leaving trails of heat as they roam her back, and they’re not even pretending to sway to the music anymore—

“Go get it, Stark!” Theon yells, accompanied by catcalls and laughter from their corner.

Sansa jumps away from Jon. He stares at her, curls in complete disarray and pupils blown wide open, and she knows she doesn’t look much better. She braces herself as she turns to look at their friends, expecting to face Robb’s incredulity, Theon’s shit-eating grin, Val’s _I-told-you-so_ look.

To her surprise, they’re not even looking at her and Jon, instead cheering on Robb and Myrcella as they make out against the wall.

“Fucking knew it,” Jon laughs. “The lady doth protest too much.”

“Cella?”

“No, Robb,” Jon snakes his arms around her waist. “Prima donna princess, my ass.”

“This’ll be fun,” Sansa hums. “I can’t wait to see the look on Cersei’s face.”

“Make sure to take a video, I bet it’ll get more shares than Theon’s lapdance.”


End file.
